Living Hell
by LapsusStili
Summary: AU. The conclusion of what could have happened, but thankfully didn’t, after Sara was abducted in the Season 7 finale. GSR-centric. Chapter 4 is from Sara’s perspective and the Epilogue is a narrative.
1. Chapter 1

**Living Hell**

_by Lapsus Stili_

**Rating:** teen (for now)

**Spoilers:** TGTB&TD and Living Doll

**Disclaimers:** I'm just playing "What-If" with these borrowed characters – unfortunately they're not mine. Not even nearly.

**Word Count:** 1400-ish

**Summary:** AU. This is a tragic look at how things could have gone after last season's finale with "Living Doll". GSR-centric

**Author's Note:** Although this is NOT a character death story, it's definitely not a happy fic either. I started this during the summer as a way to try to guess what direction TPTB might take the storyline – I'm glad to say that this is NOT how things turned out, but I wanted to finish fleshing this idea out anyways just for shits and giggles. I hope you like it.

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Hindsight is always 20/20. Isn't that what they say? That sometimes a decision may appear to be for the best at the time, but actually turns out to be not such a great idea down the road? I'm finding myself facing that same situation right now. If I knew then what I know now, would I have struggled so hard to stay alive?

Well… it's a little late now.

As I lay in that mud five long months ago, sputtering against the gritty runoff washing into my face, all I could think was to hold on just a little longer and they'd find me. Gil would find me. He would save me and everything would be ok. Well, I did hang in there and he did find me. And he saved me. But everything is definitely _not_ ok.

**_csicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsi_**

My memory of that night is spotty, and I have to say it's probably best that I can't dredge up everything that happened. I suspect this is my body's way of saying, _"there, there dear… don't worry yourself about those pesky little details."_ I'm good with that. With all the time I spend just sitting and thinking these days, the less I remember is infinitely better.

I do remember that woman startling me when I was putting my kit in the trunk. I had no idea who she was at the time but the way she said my name gave me goosebumps, and not in a good way. Whatever she sprayed in my face as I turned around felt like fire racing down my throat and scorching my lungs when I gasped in surprise. My legs gave out then and I think she caught me before I crumpled to the asphalt.

And singing. There was this little girly voice singing some creepy tune. Something about sawdust and a doll and the medicine man. I remember trying to focus on the words to distract myself from the fact that she had just removed all my clothes. I didn't want to think about what the hell she was planning. That she then re-dressed me in a different outfit came as a shock. While I was glad she wasn't some sort of sexual deviant after all, I was more confused than ever when I noticed it was all my own clothing she was putting on me. I wasn't sure when I last wore those jeans, but I'm certain I left my vest in my locker at the lab. When she pulled my limp body up to lean against her and slipped it up my arms I couldn't help but wonder how she'd managed to get it.

I have no idea how long we drove for. Several times I blacked out and came to, but the intervals could've been seconds, minutes, even hours for all I knew. My cheek felt bruised as we bumped along what seemed like a dirt road, all potholes and stones pinging against the underside of the pickup. Ya, it was a pickup and I was lying on my side in the back wrapped in something. A tarp or maybe a dropcloth. I dunno. When she stopped suddenly I slid forward and my head thwacked into the back of the cab. It hurt like hell but there wasn't much I could do about it. From the odd way my arms were stuck behind me I was pretty sure I was tied up, though I'm not sure why - I couldn't seem to move a muscle anyways. That also meant that I couldn't stop her when she suddenly grabbed my feet and slid me back onto the tailgate, then tugged again hard. I felt myself falling and as they say, it's not the fall you have to worry about, it's the landing. It was lights out again once I hit the ground.

Next time I woke up I got the shock of my life. I wasn't wrapped or tied anymore, but I could still hardly move. I was face-down then, pinned in the wet dirt. And cold…god, I was absolutely freezing. Whatever was on top of me was heavy as hell and I could barely breath. Even though my right arm was free I couldn't really move it very much and my fingers felt funny. Figured it was the temperature. Who knows how long I'd been there… wherever _there_ was. I tried to curl my fingers into a fist to warm them but they weren't cooperating at all and I only managed to dig them into the icy muck.

It's funny but when I heard on the radio earlier that day that a rainstorm was coming in I was glad. It'd been so hot and dry and the gardens really needed a good drink. I can't say as that I gave our shrubs much thought that night when I was worried about drowning in the rising puddles though. I've said it before and I'll say it again… _who the hell drowns in the desert? _I mean really, people don't keel over from heat exhaustion at the north pole! The whole idea just seemed so ridiculous, but there I was facing that unlikely possibility. On the bright side, I was able to lift my head a bit – it was about the only thing that I seemed to be able to move freely. Unfortunately I only had a couple of inches of play in my prison between the earth and the hard metal above me.

I had a unique close-up view of the puddles as they grew, merging together and forming little lakes. It was almost mesmerizing for a while. They spread closer and the splash of the falling drops threw more and more dirty spray into my eyes. I squinted, afraid that if I closed them completely I wouldn't be able to open them again. I was so tired but I wanted to be awake when they saved me. Besides, I didn't know where that psycho had gone to or if she'd be back anytime soon to finish me off. I wasn't about to let her sneak up and catch me off guard again. All I kept thinking was, _They'll be here soon_...

**_csicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsicsi_**

Despite all my efforts I didn't make it. I thought I'd drifted off for just a second but it must've been a little longer than that. The next thing that came into focus was some guy I didn't know. At least I didn't think I knew him. Of course, I _was_ lying on my back at the time looking up his nose. He was reaching over me fiddling with an IV bag. If his uniform wasn't enough to clue me in to the fact that he was an EMT, the siren wail and motion of the ambulance I was strapped in certainly would've tipped me off.

Grissom was there too. He was backlit by the sunlight streaming in through the back window but I recognized his form straight away. Something started beeping to the right of me and when Gil turned his head towards the machine I could see the glistening of tears running freely down his face. I wondered for a moment if I was dead - if I was dead and my soul was here watching as my secret husband grieved over my lifeless body. I saw him holding my hand in both of his, but I couldn't feel it. When I tried to squeeze my fingers to let him know that I was ok, I found I couldn't. I kept thinking, _Am I even blinking_?

Things got pretty hectic once we reached the hospital. As I was being wheeled quickly into the building, my eyes momentarily assaulted by the bright fluorescents lighting the corridor, someone pulled Grissom away from me. I was so scared and I wanted him to come with me but a woman's voice outside of my line of sight spoke firmly to him. "You'll have to wait here, sir. She's in good hands now and we'll take good care of her. The EMT's radioed ahead and we're already prepping the OR for her. As soon as…?" was all I heard of the conversation before another set of doors closed behind us.

As things starting to fade out to gray again I thought, _At least I finally got one question answered – I'm still alive_.

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**to be continued…**

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_Please let me know what you think of this fic._


	2. Chapter 2

**Living Hell – chapter 2**

_by Lapsus Stili_

**Rating:** teen (for now)

**Word Count:** 1180-ish

**Spoilers:** TGTB&TD and Living Doll

**Disclaimers:** I'm just playing "What-If" with these borrowed characters – unfortunately they're not mine. Not even nearly.

**Summary: **AU. A continued tragic look at how things could have gone after last season's finale with "Living Doll". GSR-centric.

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Later, when they first told us it was a T1, I couldn't quite figure out what they were talking about. _A T-what_? _Isn't that some kind of tax form or something?_ I admit that with the meds they were pumping into me I was sort of floating in and out of the conversation, but I figured whatever it was couldn't be great news. With the way Gil was standing there worrying his thumb against the inside of his ringless ring-finger, I thought for sure he'd spark a flame from the friction. Then I picked up on a couple of phrases like "spinal cord injury" and "paraplegia" and I thought about rubbing my own fingers together. Too bad I couldn't move them. I think I started to cry then but I might've just drifted back to sleep.

_**- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**_

_Dozens of tiny dolls were leaping about, giggling madly, their shiny glass eyes never blinking. In the moonlight I watched as they danced all over a huge cement truck rumbling and grumbling beside me, vibrations tickling my spine through the ground. Some of the little bastards scampered up my naked body as I lay on my back in the wet dirt. Their sharp plastic fingers pricked my skin as they hoisted themselves up, leaving minute rivulets of blood in their wake. As the barreled body of the truck slowly rolled around and around, the words "Something is wrong with my little inside" scrolled up and over, then disappeared over the top, only to start its cycle again a few seconds later. _

_Lightning flashed, illuminating the endless desert surrounding me. The rain started then, but instead of water droplets it was bits of sawdust floating down from the purple-black clouds above. The scent of musty damp wood made me dizzy, almost nauseous. I lay there and stared, scared to death, as the dollies pulled the chute into place, pointing it straight at me. _

_I couldn't move, nothing would respond, not even when the lumpy gray sludge began to make its way towards me. Even when it covered my feet and lower legs, I still just lay there motionless, helpless, silent tears spilling across my temples to pool in my ears and wet my hair. I could feel the heavy cold seeping into me, sapping what little energy I had left. The cement mounded higher, slowly creeping up my body, and still the dancing, giggling, evil little dolls bopped about in the sawdust shower. _

_Soon the flow eased off to a mere trickle, and it was none too soon. I was shivering, gasping for breath, buried now up to my chin in the thickening concrete. My poor nipples were drawn painfully into themselves in my body's pitiful attempt to protect itself from the chilling blanket. My thoughts strayed to Doc Robbins of all people, imagining his thoughtful face, wondering what he would say was my cause of death. Hypothermia? Compressive asphyxia? One more stray blob of cement down that chute and it might just be drowning._

_The motor suddenly cut out and I was stunned by the haunting silence that followed. Another flash of lightning strobed through the sky and everything was gone – the cement truck, the sawdust rain, and the crazy army of dolls. Everything. And I was left there smothering in the darkness all alone. _

_I heard my name on a whisper and my eyes, the only thing I could move, flitted about trying to find the source in the pale silvery light. A dark form appeared suddenly, leaning down over my head. He said my name again, louder this time, and I knew that voice like I know my own. _

_I begged him to help me, to pull me up and to take me to our home. His warm fingertips gently swept away my tears, and he smiled down at me. He said, "Sara, sweetheart, everything will be ok…" and I believed him. But then he stood and turned away, then disappeared into thin air. And I screamed and screamed into the nothingness._

_**- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**_

As if I didn't have enough shit from my past lingering in my dreams, waking me in a cold sweat, now my subconscious was having an absolute field day with all this fresh material. And being in the hospital for 8 weeks did nothing to help my sleep issues. Instead of waking up in tears or staving off sleep as long as possible like I normally would do, I was trapped in almost constant nightmares, unable to rouse myself due to the truckloads of drugs they were treating me to. I most certainly was _not_ feeling the carpe diem rush that often accompanies near-death traumas.

There were surgeries, of course. And tests, too… lots and lots of tests. It all grated on my nerves, all that poking and prodding. I just wanted to go home and instead I was stuck in a bed, staring up at an exceedingly bland ceiling wondering what horrible things I must've done in my previous life to have deserved yet another slap in the face this time around.

Everyone stopped in to visit when they could, but conversation was pretty strained. I always asked them about their day to be polite, but I really didn't care to hear about the violence, death, theft, and general mayhem that made up most of their waking hours, so small talk was the order of the day more often than not. I learned far more about the uber-dramatic life of Catherine's teenage daughter than I ever wanted to know. Nick and Warrick had a running banter going on which of them was better at… well, anything – scoring with the ladies, shooting pool, casting tire treads, and even who was more likely to win the office pool on how long it would be before Ecklie put out a formal memo addressing inter-office dating. I could tell they both wanted to ask about Gil's and my surprise lovelife, but neither had the guts to bring it up and I wasn't in the mood to share.

Greg brought me a care-package one afternoon to help me fight the boredom – books, magazines, a deck of cards, and his Gameboy Advance (which he very clearly indicated was just on loan since he couldn't live for long without his trusty Legend of Zelda). The poor guy blushed a deep crimson and apologized profusely when I bluntly told him they were of no use to me. It wasn't his fault, and I shouldn't have been so hard on him. How was he supposed to know that I had very limited use of my hands now.

As the swelling around my spine went down I slowly regained control over my arms for the most part, but my fingers were almost useless. I had no grip strength to speak of and the doctors told us that would probably be as good as it gets. Eventually I could breathe on my own, but pretty much everything south of my diaphragm was paralyzed. I couldn't even sit up. It was all numb. Dead. Kinda like I feel some days.

_**to be continued…**_

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_please let me know what you think of this story._


	3. Chapter 3

**Living Hell – chapter 3**

by Lapsus Stili (aka. Slip-of-the-Pen )

**Rating:** Mature (for language and sexual content in this chapter)

**Word Count:** 1940-ish

**Spoilers:** TGTB&TD and Living Doll

**Disclaimers:** I'm just playing "What-If" with these borrowed characters – unfortunately they're not mine. Not even nearly.

**Summary:** AU. More on how tragically things could have gone after last season's finale with "Living Doll". GSR-centric.

**Author's Note:** Although this is NOT a character death story, it's definitely not a happy fic either. You have been warned.

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Sometimes I miss working at the lab. Sometimes I miss working period, but the challenges and triumphs of being a CSI really gave me a sense of purpose and worth. These days I can't say as that I feel much of either of those things. My counselor told me I'm suffering from depression. I asked her, "Wouldn't you be, if you were in my shoes?" She never answered my question.

I know he's not trying to rush me, but lately Gil has been hinting that it might do me some good to get out of the house more, maybe come back to work. Fieldwork is obviously out of the question now, but Gil and Ecklie have put their heads together and created a role for me as a training consultant if I'm up for it. I'd be paired up with a rotation of interns from the academy to create instructional documentation and orientation manuals for the lab. My words – their typing. I guess they figure that even though my body isn't in such great shape, at least my brain can still be of some use.

I'm not sure which part freaks me out more – the fact that Ecklie is bending over backwards trying to find something I can do around the office, or that he and Gil have actually set aside their considerable differences to collaborate on my behalf. The more I think about it, the more disturbing it is either way.

Regardless, I've turned them down anyways… at least for now. At this point, the last thing I want is to be back in that environment. I love the people there, a particular entomologist especially, of course. And teaching is something that I always got a lot of satisfaction from. No, it's the subject matter I'd be immersed in again that keeps me away.

I've had enough of it all, and I've come to realize that we're really just a bunch of glorified garbage collectors. We clean up after the mess and mayhem of others, sweeping aside the horrors. It doesn't stop it from happening again, so what's the point? If anything, the crime rates continue to climb, no matter how many cases we solve or criminals we help prosecute. We can put a killer in jail tomorrow, and rest assured that someone else will commit another murder before the week is out.

Besides, I'm kind of happy just sitting around being miserable at home. Well, perhaps 'happy' is too strong a word, but I've certainly gotten quite comfortable doing just that. My days are spent in bed with Gil, sleeping when my body lets me or just laying there listening to him snoring away by my side when the dreams keep me awake. While Gil's at work most nights, I pass the time hanging around with Bruno – he's a pretty good listener, actually. The in-between time when we're both home together is filled mainly with him trying to entertain me or taking care of me in some way.

Most of the time I feel really badly for Gil. He's been so incredibly patient throughout my recovery and re-adjustment period. Every step of the way he's been there - taking me to appointments, holding my hand, and just supporting me with all his love.

He's just so glad that I survived that he doesn't see how little of me is actually left. It reminds me of a case I worked years ago. A vic was raped, beaten, shot in the head and left to die… only she didn't. She ended up in a coma instead, and the last I heard she was still hanging on in a long-term care facility over in Boulder City. I remember talking with her husband just before they transferred her, and thinking how sad it was that he seemed completely oblivious to the fact that she would never wake up. He was smiling and thanking me for all my help, and it was all I could do not to burst into tears right there in front of the poor guy.

Gil, though, has surprisingly taken all the recent changes in our life in stride – and boy, have there been some serious changes. Even before I'd been released from Desert Springs he had temporary ramps installed at the front and back doors of the house, and he moved our bedroom from upstairs down to what used to be his home office on the main floor. I never asked him to do it, and he never mentioned that he was even thinking about the change – he just did it on his own because he wanted to make things as easy as possible for me.

He was also quick to point out that first day home that these changes were only a temporary measure as he already had a lead on several bungalows around town that were wheelchair accessible. I balked as soon as he said that. For more than 15 years he had lived comfortably in that townhouse, and Gil Grissom was not a man who readily embraced change. There was no way I wanted him to have to turn his whole life upside down and give up his home for me.

I should have known that resistance was futile. While he is most certainly a creature of habit, he also has a stubborn streak a mile wide. Once he makes up his mind to do something it's generally next to impossible to get him to change his tune. It's a trait I alternately love and hate about him depending on the situation.

As such, after just 2 weeks of whirl-wind house viewings with our real estate agent, a visit to the lawyer's office, and a quick phone call to a local moving company, Gil and I found ourselves mailing out change-of-address cards regarding our new place in Green Valley.

It was sweet really, the way he morphed into my knight in shining armor, but I have to admit it made me feel like shit at the same time. Sooner or later he's going to come to his senses and realize that I have little left to offer him in our relationship now.

I feel more like a helpless infant than a loving wife nowadays. I mean, how embarrassing is it to need someone to help dress you when you're 37 years old – and let me tell you, there's nothing sexy about a man trying to put a bra _onto_ a woman. That ranks right up there with having to be washed by your husband, too. And let's not forget the completely degrading pièce de résistance – dealing with the catheter and colostomy bag… I'm sure that's a _huge_ thrill in Grissom's life on days when the home health assistant isn't here.

I'm nothing but a burden.

And I don't want that. Not ever. I can't stand the thought of being someone's cross to bear… especially not Gil's. He deserves far better, and I love him enough to know that I need to let him go so he can get on with his life. Find someone else who can make him happy.

I couldn't imagine him with Catherine, but maybe he could hook up with Sofia. I know nothing ever happened between the two of them but I'm not blind. We all noticed that there was a mutual interest between them when she first rolled into town. I think they'd be a good match. They both understand the demands and stresses of each other's jobs, and she has a sharp sense of humour that Grissom appreciates. And then there's her body. I don't mind admitting that I've noticed her fine physique. Of course, Gil would never in a million years complain or even comment on my less-than-ample rack, but like any hot-blooded man I'm sure he'd be thrilled with the larger handfuls that Sofia sports up top.

Gil could definitely do with getting laid more these days, too. He hasn't complained about it, but our intimate moments have certainly been few and far between since I came home. It's not that I haven't been turned on since then. On the contrary, there have been plenty of times that I've missed the physical side of our relationship. He's still the same sexy guy I married on the sly, after all. And what woman in her right mind wouldn't be thrilled to wake up to his gentle nips and kisses along the slope of her neck while her breasts were being lazily caressed beneath the sheets?

He's wakened me that way on numerous occasions. In those brief foggy moments of half-conscious arousal, it's the most natural thing in the world to tilt my head, capture his roaming lips, and proceed to kiss him like there's no tomorrow. Inevitably my hands will make their way loosely across his back, holding his warm body to mine and pretending for a moment that all is right in our lives.

I could kiss that man forever – he's that good.

Sooner or later, the bottle of lube will be snagged from the bedside table drawer. No feeling below mid-chest means no flood of moisture between my legs, no matter how badly my mind and heart want to fuck him. That little dose of reality is enough to put a slight damper on things – at least for me it does. From the looks of things as he's lining up his shaft at the entrance to my pussy after slicking me up, he's just as hard and raring to go as ever.

I only know he's sliding into me because I can see it happening. That's always the final kicker that sucks any remaining pleasure out of the moment for me. I can't feel the heat of him spreading me apart, filling me up as he buries himself in me. I can't wrap my legs around his hips and hold us tightly together. Worst of all, I can't feel that slight twitch of his cock right before his balls draw up and he bathes my insides with thick, warm cum. _God, how I miss that_.

I've never told Gil about any of this, though. I can't. No matter how depressed I suddenly feel, I plaster on my best "lovin' it" face for his benefit. It's bad enough his life now revolves around caring for an invalid, but I'll be damned if I'll deny him the pleasure of making love. Instead I tuck away my pain and fake enthusiasm about the whole thing.

We both know his movements in my southern region are for his benefit only and that's ok. We've talked the whole scenario to death with my doctor about how intimacy would be for us now. Still, I pretend that the rest of me is still into it. I kiss him passionately, work my tongue along his chest and tight nipples, and breathe words of love and lust in his ears. I haven't yet experienced the nipple-orgasm that some books say is possible, but Gil certainly tries his best to pleasure me as much as he can. When he finds his release, more often than not it's accompanied by tears now. He clings to me with an intense desperation as though he's afraid that I'll disappear.

Only after he's drifted off to sleep or gone to take a shower do I allow my sadness to surface and my own tears to quietly spill over. I'm ruining his life by staying, but I fear that I'll hurt him just as badly if I force him away too, even if it _is_ for his own good.

And I keep asking myself over and over… _What am I going to do?_

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_**to be continued…**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Living Hell – Chapter 4 and Epilogue**

_by Lapsus Stili (aka. Slip of the Pen)_

**Rating:** Teen (nothing naughty in this chapter)

**Word Count:** about 2750

**Spoilers:** Living Doll and Dead Doll

**Disclaimers:** I'm just playing "What-If" with these borrowed characters – unfortunately they're not mine. Not even nearly.

**Summary:** AU. A wrap-up of what could have happened (but thankfully didn't) after Sara was abducted in the Season 7 finale. GSR-centric. Chapter 4 is from Sara's perspective and the Epilogue is a narrative.

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_**Chapter 4**_

When I first came home, our friends were clamoring to come by. We almost had to post a damn schedule to keep track of the comings and goings – it was that hectic. Eventually things settled down. They were satisfied that I was ok, or as ok as could be expected all things considered. Plus, I think that my sour mood made things a little uncomfortable for everyone. In time the drop-ins seemed to become more a matter of occasional obligation. Looking back I readily admit that I was a bitter, bitter woman. I sometimes wondered if they came over because they truly wanted my company, or if there was something else behind it. Perhaps Grissom had been prodding them in an effort to boost my spirits, or maybe to make me realize how much I missed them so I would be more likely to want to head back to work.

Granted, there was always the possibility that they came out of pity. I used to think that a lot but I'm trying very hard not to let my thoughts continue in such a negative manner. That dark cloud has been hanging over me for far too long. I allowed myself to wallow for long enough, and it's time to get on with things.

So I've chosen to ignore those nagging thoughts that people are feeling sorry for me, or that I'm seriously the most unlucky person on the planet, or that poor Gil is just stuck with this useless shell of a person. That's not who I want to be anymore. It's taken months of running things around in my head, talking my fool head off to Bruno (who thankfully doesn't mind my incessant ramblings), and surprisingly the sessions with my therapist have helped my immensely. Never thought I'd say that in this lifetime. I suppose it probably helps that I became a willing participant in those meetings rather than just sulking in silence and occasionally gracing the poor woman with a non-committal shrug.

Most important, though, was the deep, heartfelt, (and often tearful) talks that I had with Gil. My love. My rock. It took a lot to open up. He's not the only pro at hiding from problems. Once we accidentally stumbled into some honest discussions though, I was amazed at how things started to look a little brighter. The twinge of hope was faint, but it was there and I clung to it knowing that I couldn't go on the way I had been.

They weren't all fun and games, of course. It was damn hard. The first of the real "biggie" talks was definitely the worst though. I had finally worked up the nerve to broach the subject of him being better off with someone else. Well, let's just say that as sure as I was that this really was for the best, the idea did not go over very well. At all. Not even nearly.

I don't think I've ever seen him so mad, nor have I heard him yell like that – before or since that day. Gil is generally a quiet seether when he gets pissed off, and more likely to skulk off to deal with things alone. Although I vaguely recall hearing that he once heaved a coffee pot across the breakroom over something Ecklie said or did, I've never personally been a direct witness to his rage. It was brief, but it wasn't pretty.

At first he said nothing. He blinked at his crossword puzzle for a moment, then lifted his gaze and stared back at me with eyes like saucers. Then the redness began to creep up his neck, flaming across his cheeks, and he actually snapped his pencil with his shaking death grip on it. I immediately wished I had kept my mouth shut. It was too late to take it back though – it was already out there.

His first words, so very quiet and quivering just a bit, were, "You think I'd be better off with you?"

Since that was pretty much exactly what I had said word for word, I figured it was a rhetorical question, so I said nothing. Apparently I was wrong.

He followed this with a thundering, "_YOU HONESTLY THINK I'D BE BETTER OFF WITHOUT YOU? FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, SARA…HOW THE HELL CAN YOU SAY THAT? I… WITH EVERYTHING __WE… YOU JUST…_"

I sank further and further back against the headboard, sliding against the pillows as much as I could with the strap supporting me, while he continued his verbal rampage. Deep down I knew he would never hurt me. Not in a million years. But nonetheless I recoiled instinctively, eyes wide. A childhood force of habit rearing its ugly head at a most inopportune moment. And Gil noticed.

And he stopped.

The sorrow that doused the flames from his eyes made my heart drop like a stone into my gut. I had cut him badly. With that one simple movement he now thought that I was afraid of him, waiting for the blows to come, expecting that he would lash out quick and hard as my father had done so often. And of course he never would… he never, ever would.

Now he was angry, hurt, _and_ felt guilty for scaring me on top of it all. _Nice going Sara_. That was not how I thought that conversation would go. I wasn't actually sure what to expect, but it certainly wasn't that.

Gil ran a palm across his face, startled a bit to find he was sweating up a storm, then scooted around on top of the tousled blankets to face me. My hands were like ice, but I don't think he noticed when he took hold of them. He looked down at our joined hands with a longing I hadn't seen since before we became an us, caressing my flesh with his thumbs. After a few deep breaths he calmed and started again.

This was a turning point for both of us. He told me about how empty he had felt the moment he realized that monster had abducted me, and that hollow sensation echoed through him all the time they were frantically searching for me. It had partially eased when he finally laid eyes on me out in the burning desert, but he went on to say that he wasn't able to truly breathe until I opened my eyes and looked right at him later in the ambulance. He didn't know why but that was when he just knew that everything would be ok. One way or another we would get through it together. To-ge-ther. He had repeated it looking in my eyes, making sure I understood that there was nowhere else he would rather be than with me… with us.

The two of us cried a river that day, but it was the start of our healing. My body had recovered and adjusted from my injuries, but my soul had not. I hadn't let it. There was no surgery for that kind of wound. Our talks though, dealing with our emotional pain at last – that was intensely therapeutic.

I told him everything I'd been toiling over. Admitting my fears, saying it all out loud, was scary to say the least. It shouldn't have been. Gil reassured me on every point. It wasn't pity or a sense of obligation that kept him by my side. His unwavering love and support shone through with every word.

Our talks also opened my eyes to _his_ pain too – things he had been struggling with in silence but had kept locked inside because he felt I had more than enough on my plate to deal with already. Then I brought up some of the horrible dreams that had been plaguing me. And damn – wasn't he having his own nightmares, too. Tears spilled down his face as he described finding my crushed body, lifeless, submerged in a puddle beneath that mangled car every time he closed his eyes. A flash-frame scene that haunted him again and again.

For the thousandth time I apologized for letting this happen and for ruining what we had. To which he argued back that it was his fault – if only he had figured out who the miniature killer was sooner, then the tragedy would have been avoided. In the end we both agreed that neither of us were really to blame. It was all _her_ doing, _her_ madness, and since we were never going to get an "I'm sorry" from _her_, we decided that we would try to let go of our perceived guilt about any of it. Topic closed. End of discussion (the end of _that_ one, at least).

Surprisingly, we laughed that day too. Laughed at how both he and I stewed in our own juices to spare each other's feelings. Ironically that's what led to both of us getting hurt and feeling miserable. Some geniuses we turned out to be. Brass has said on numerous occasions that we are the dumbest smart people he knows. I think he's right.

After that day things started looking up. It took time, of course, but Gil and I made a point of talking more – _really_ talking. I resolved to quit feeling sorry for myself all the time. Yes, it's true that what happened sucked. Big time. Yes, my life has been drastically changed. _Our lives_ have changed. The fact is that there is still a life left to live and I haven't been living it. Not really. For the past year I'd been letting myself float in limbo, mourning what was lost but forgetting to recognize that what remained was precious, too.

Our love.

I don't need to write in this journal anymore. Despite my new body, my new life, I'm still me. I'm a product of my past experiences – good and bad – just like everyone else. I still love Gil. He's a gentle, caring man who has helped me to see that he loves me the same as he always has and always will. I know that he has no intention of ever turning away from the life we've made together.

That's good, because neither do I.

* * *

_**Epilogue…**_

Grissom closed the leather diary that he'd been thumbing through for hours, and set it beside him on the wooden bench. The cover of the book was soft and worn. He sat quietly, surrounded by the lush gardens, listening to the warbling chitter of an ornery Northern Flicker feeding in a nearby tree. Many evenings were spent this way now.

When Sara had decided to move forward in a positive light about a year after her accident, part of her evolution involved getting outside more and enjoying the great outdoors again. Gil wanted to give her a glorious paradise, and he slowly transformed their drab manicured backyard into a bright haven over the years. Since Gil never does anything half-assed, he became a regular fixture at a number of local garden nurseries, keeping the staff on their toes with his never-ending arsenal of questions.

In time, the palette of textures and tones grew. Now clumps of black-eyed susan's poked out from a sea of all different types of hostas. Saliva, coneflowers, bleeding hearts and astilbe all blended together in harmony, their varying colors highlighted against the backdrop of flowering shrubs around the perimeter of the yard. Sara would come home and meander through the garden along the wide cut-stone path they'd had installed. After a long shift, she said it was the perfect way to unwind.

Yes, Sara did go back to work. It was uncomfortable at first as she got settled into her new routine, but she spent the next 9 years working on documentation and training manuals, and even consulted on cases in-house. No more field work, but she happily discovered it was just as rewarding to be contributing to the background knowledge-base of them upcoming CSI's. When Gil retired at 60, Sara decided to follow suit. Although she was only 45, they were financially comfortable and wanted to spend quality time together, maybe travel a bit.

So they did.

Bit by bit they visited most of the places on their list - Paris, Rome, Sydney, Vancouver, Lima, and Buenos Aries. They even spent a couple of weeks in northern Alaska one June just to experience the summer there when the sun never sets. With all the time that the couple had spent as nocturnals, it was a wonderful change of pace to live without darkness for a while.

There were some fantastic places they stopped in along the way, but as beautiful as they were, the pair always made their way back to Vegas. They may have been born in different parts of California, but Las Vegas, Nevada would forever be their home. It's where they felt most comfortable and with little discussion they agreed that's where they wanted to spend the rest of their lives.

Which is exactly what Sara managed to do.

She passed away last month. She was 61. The symptoms she experienced were so few and so mild that by the time the alarm bells rang there was little to do but put her affairs in order and cherish her final weeks with Gil.

It was a good death, as deaths go. If you have to get cancer, apparently ascending colon cancer is the way to go – reasonably pain free in her case, but too far advanced to bother wasting precious time in a treatment-filled battle. There were more important things that she wanted to do with her remaining time, like be with her husband and their friends. She was able to stay at home, which is exactly where she wanted to be. They kept her comfortable right to the end with pain meds that Gil could administer himself.

Sara's last day was perfect - sunny with a warm breeze blowing in the window that looked out over the gardens. He was reading to her from a battered collection of poems that they both enjoyed. When it was time – and she knew that it _was_ time – she squeezed Gil's hand and smiled at him. In a quiet, sure voice she thanked him for loving her, for being more than she ever deserved, and told him she'd see him again soon.

Sitting here today watching the sky pinken towards twilight, Gil could almost feel that final whisper of a kiss that they shared. He cherished the fact that he was with her until the end. They had time to say their goodbyes, and then he told her he loved her and how much he would miss her, and that he looked forward to being with her again.

Flipping through her journal, the one her therapist had her start writing in as part of her recovery, always brought tears to his eyes. Some tears were from sadness, for the horror and struggles that she endured, but other tears were gratitude. Horrible as that experience had been, in the long run it had made her a stronger person, made them a stronger couple. Reading her words about her ordeal and later when she slowly regained a modicum of hope in her life – her discovery that she still _had_ a life – helped Gil feel closer to her. It made it easier to be here without her.

With a sigh he gripped the cane resting against his leg, steadied it, then leaned heavily on it and pushed to his feet. Once he had his balance, Grissom shifted his weight a little until his bad left knee gave an audible, but relieving pop. That out of the way, he turned back and grabbed Sara's diary, tucking it safely in the crook of his arm. He glanced around to make sure he hadn't left anything on the bench. He routinely managed to leave his reading glasses behind, but today they were safely perched on his nose where they belonged.

The shuffle back to the patio doors was slow, but that was just fine by him – he had nowhere special to be just then anyhow. In the waning light the crickets began their night song, bringing a smile to the man's face. As he slid the door open and stepped into the coolness of the living room, Gil's focus was drawn to the large photo hanging by the door. His eyes wet a bit as he stepped up and brought a shaking old hand up to trace the curves of Sara's face on their wedding day so long ago.

Before turning away and heading to bed, he smiled at her and said, "Soon, my love. I'll be there soon."

_**... FIN …**_

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A/N: I apologize for the delay in finishing up this story. Life got explosively busy for a while. For any of you who've been good enough to stick around and get through all of this, I hope the end was worth the wait. Cheers!


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